


Frozen Blood and Priceless Light

by TheBlackWidower



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Blood and Gore, Custom Bad Guy, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hiccstrid ×, Major Character Injury, Major Original Character(s), Minor Character Death, Multichapter, Romance, Smut, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 13:12:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15001607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackWidower/pseuds/TheBlackWidower
Summary: His father laughed at the idea that they would be attacked. They had dragons, he argued. No one would attack them. No one could tame them. No one could beat them. They let their guard down, they stroked their ego, let it eat them. They paid dearly.But his son's blood shouldn't have been on his hands. His sons pale, frozen, body shouldn't lay in his arms. His people shouldn't have been slaughtered.





	1. I

Hiccup couldn’t stop staring at the blood that seemed to flow along the gravel and sand, the red metallic smelling substance slowly enveloping his fur tipped boots. He shuddered as he felt the slight freeze of the blood through the boot and to his toes. His mind tries to block the cries of pain and misery that unfolded before him but failed to do so, the shrieks piercing through his haze of shell shock; it stirred him into action.

His feet thudded on the dispersed yet dense ground, his heart pounded in his heart as he made his way through Berk. Bodies seemingly littered the ground, akin to apple cores, the stench wafting through the air with such arrogance it choked all who dared to breathe through their noses. Coughing, the young man ran through the remanence of the village, by dragon riders who were healing their dragons or those who were mourning them on their knees. He passed houses of those he visited once, hoping they weren’t inside, trapped and suffocating to an end. He heard the mournful moans of dragons far away, perched on the side of the mountain. The defensive structure, once boasted by Stoick and his men, now trapped the villagers between the flames and a hard place.

Gasping he passed the house of the Hofferson's, stumbling to a stop to let out a small sob at its state. The roof lay collapsed upon the supporting wooden structures inside the house, blackened by dragon fire. The door lay open, bearing the remaining fires that ate away at the house’s innards. The foundations lay ripped apart, leading numerous walls collapsing and feeding the fires that were spreading throughout the house. He was distracted from the nightmarish sight by a crescendoing growl that ripped through the air. Instinctively, Hiccup threw himself on the ground, ducking as a Thunderclaw dove past him and spluttered green fire at him. Even in the darkness that surrounded him, the young man’s eyes were keen enough to tell there was a chain wrapped snugly around the neck of the dragon, signifying that the dragon did not own itself nor was this a freak of nature: It was an attack on Berk by Dragon Hunters.

With the fire landing mere meters away from his body, he made his way through the houses and avoided the main cobbled road that lead through the center of Berk.

 _I need to find my father_ , he thought, _I have to know if-_

His thoughts were cut off as the Thunderclaw made another pass through the houses, lighting the western side of Berk under fields of green fire. The howls of anguish lifted through the air, showing that the target had been hit.

_That could’ve been anyone. Snotlout, Fishlegs, the twins...Father...Astrid..._

Shaking his head away from the image of their bloody and charred corpses, he pressed forward to where he knew he would find his father. The Mead Hall. The Dragon Holdout it was sometimes called. After the time of the _Red Death,_ Berk had managed to find the time, resources and brute strength to fortify key areas and holdouts to be fire resistant at least. The Mead Hall was an exception. It was fireproof. Stumbling over a root, he collapsed over his elbows, bloodying them. It was then, to his horror, that the root grasped onto his leg. A whimper escaped his lips in fear but was quickly quelled when he realized that the root was, in fact, a human.

“Hiccup…” the man whispered, “Nephew…”

Hiccups eyes widened as he stared into the dying eyes of the bearded figure of his uncle, Spitelout Jorgenson, bleeding out in front of him. Coming around, he leaned over his father’s brother.

“Sp-Spitelout...Uncle…” he managed, unable to stomach the scene before his eyes, much less accept his uncle lay dying in his arms. His stomach lay burnt, split open and bloodied. His innards lay strewing across his lap and thighs with blood slowly yet steadily leaving him and accumulating in the puddle around his body. No matter how close their healer was Hiccup knew that his uncle was a dead man.

“P-p-please...tell my son…” he whispered, trailing off.

“Tell Snotlout what?” Hiccup asked, shaking the man to get an answer out of him. The mention of his son’s name seemed to invigorate the dying man before him, his blue eyes opening wide with life.

  
“Tell him that...regardless of what I’ve said in the past…”, the man took a shuddering breath as tears escaped his eyes, “Tell him I love him with all my heart, every bit of him.”

His uncles teal blue eyes bore into Hiccup’s emerald green, the older man's hand grasping the shaking arm of his nephew. “And Hiccup…” he whispered, the light slowly leaving the blue eyes before the young man, “I’m sorry…” he managed.

Soon, the arm gripping Hiccup went slack, falling to the side as Spitelout died. Hiccup, shuddering, knew that he had to move on, to leave his uncle’s body. Swallowing thickly, he pushed himself up on his feet and moved towards the Mead Hall in the distance. The brazier lay lit above the Hall, signifying that there were people inside and that they were alive. He also spotted two dragons that were spitting red, molten flames against the structure yet failed to damage the building substantially at all.

“Gods damn you Gobber, you know how to make shit, I’ll give you that,” he muttered to himself, chuckling lightly as he crawled stealthily through the remnants of the town.

He could envision his father hefting up a grand hammer, laying in the grasp of his dead brother, and bringing down the justice of Thor upon the intruders. But he wasn’t his father. He wasn’t a head taller than all the men, nor was he the strongest man on Berk. He was a thinker. But he knew that thinking alone wasn’t going to get him to the Mead Hall. It was speed and stealth. He had to find a way through the village and past the two dragons attacking the Mead Hall without dying a fiery death. He could imagine what the books had to say :

  
_Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third: Brought dragons into the lives of those around him; the salvation of Berk forms the Red Death. Died from being stuck outside during an enemy raid and burnt to death- by dragons._

He smiled at the irony of it: Killed by those he once vehemently tried to protect.  Then a frown crept upon his face as the likelihood of it actually happening hit him. Shuddering the thought of death aside, he pushed onwards between the burnt houses and corpses that seemingly lay everywhere. He dared not spare a glance at a carcass for too long in fear that he may recognize it or, even worse, once loved the person it used to be.  


Before too long, he awaited in the shadows mere twenty meters from the entrance of the Mead Hall. Layer upon layer of asbestos, a material recently found on one of the neighboring enclaves, was hefted upon the roof and walls of the Mead Hall. Scorch marks littered the grey - silverish metal yet Hiccup knew from experience that it could simply be wiped off with a strong acid and a washcloth.

The obvious entrances had been sealed off by either friends or foe, leaving him stuck outside, however, he had played an integral role in shaping the upgrade of the Mead Hall with himself standing by Gobber in designing it and building it. He had been the one with the idea of a holdout position against such an attack, he had been the one to argue with his father that they weren’t the only ones with dragons on the archipelago and they faced a true danger from fire regardless of where it came from. Their wooden houses would leave them at the mercy of the flames unless they could effectively proof them of some sorts or at least make a place where they could hide from it. He had created a failsafe entrance on the South side of the Mead Hall, facing the mighty alps that flanked them.

  
Slowly Hiccup stalked around the Mead Hall, using the skeletons of houses for cover as they were set in a circular formation around the Hall. Soon, however, the design of Berk cursed him once more. It was made for an intruder to be uncovered and the defensive formations to have a clear view of them. The only issue was that he was where the attackers would be and the attackers were manning the bell towers and watch posts for any sign of the resistance coming out. The houses, while providing sufficient cover, were separated into spokes leading towards the Hall - a big wheel. But, like any wheel, there was space between each spoke, where enemies stood on guard and ready to finish of stranglers like Hiccup.

 

The moon sat high above, silver light lighting up the roads through the cloudless nightmare that surrounded the young man. The shadows were his friend, hiding him from certain death from a blade or destruction from dragon fire. Fumbling, his hands grasped upon the familiar dagger, the wooden handle sitting snugly within his fingers, the blade balanced and light. He thumbed the tip to check if it was sharp enough and was pleased to find that his fingers returned with a bloodied mark running lengthwise. With his frame well within the shadows, Hiccup glanced into the moonlit road and found a lone guard, facing directly at the Mead Hall, grumbling to himself.

“Fucking dragon riders...sure as hell didn’t sign up for this. I know how to kill a dragon. I know how to kill a man. But by Thor’s sweaty ball sack, a dragon rider AND his dragon? Killed nearly half a hundred man that Stoick. By his own!” he exclaimed, shaking his head in shock, “Good thing we caught that fat ass of a dragon at least. Blood for blood I say.” he finished in a murmur.

Harrumphing to himself, Hiccup basked slightly in his father's achievements, proud to be his son. Sliding along the shadowed wall, Hiccup was close enough to make out the man’s face. Heavily bearded, scarred and his face upholding only a single eyebrow, this man seemingly faced numerous battles and, most likely, dragons in his raids. His helmet lay snugly tucked under his left arm whilst his right hand lay on his unsheathed blade, serrated on both ends and bloodied- dragon blood. He knew what he would have to do. Sneaking past him wasn’t a tactical option, nor was it something he would willingly choose. No, Hiccup thirsted for his blood to be split, for revenge, no matter how small. He had to move quickly otherwise who knew how many of his fellow Vikings would die? But before he could attack, another figure emerged from the opposite ally, greeting the guard already at watch.

“Boss would like that head, wouldn't he Ivar? Put it right o’ a spike, that one. *Hmph* took a few good men to take down though, didn’t it? Pretty sure I saw Sif and Frigg go down in flames. Burnt a barge down as well. Two dozen men, gone to the depths or the fire. Don’t know which one I’d take.” said the man. His shoulders were set wide, his arms were covered in tattoos, scars, and burns. He towered over the other man by at least a head, his back set straight and proud as if he had a pillar for a spine.  

 _A giant among giants_ his father used say. And the village, in recognition of Stoick’s own size. Grunting, Hiccup knew that he couldn’t take them both down. No, he had to wait, and bide his time.

 _As more of my fellow brothers and sisters die_ he thought, shaking his head in defeat. But he knew he didn’t have a chance against two and a half men.

“Whatcha think? Was it worth it, Harold? Those men? Didn’t sign up for this shit, you know it.” Ivar asked, defeated. A sigh seemingly escaped his lips as he eyed the Mead Hall that stood stubbornly undefeated in front of the two men.

“I know...but Boss’s word, eh? Occupational hazard, as he put it. But no...one dragon isn’t worth fifty men...it isn’t worth even one. Those meaty fuck heads deserve to be put down after what they did, to me and mine _._ I suppose they killed your family too, eh, Ivar?” came the question from Harold, his blond hair whipped in the wind as he firmly gripped his blood-soaked axe. His teal, electric blue eyes scanned the clear night skies for signs of dragons.

“Might as well...my wife lay burnt beyond recognition…but at least she survived. Must’ve been too stringy for that Nightmare. But...but my _child_ ,” he spat vehemently, “My child,” he continued, defeated and quietly, “My sweet, _sweet_ daughter..she bleed to death in my arms with her leg ripped off, begging me to not let her die. You know what that is, Harold? To be completely _powerless_ as your child dies in front of you? She didn’t do _anything_ wrong! She was innocent! She...she was _my daughter_ ” he whispered. His fist clenched tightly, the whites coming to the forefront of the skin on top of his knuckles. Angrily, he slapped the helm back on top of his head, with noticeable deformation on the side and top.

“Ivar...I feel ya.” came a hoarse whisper from Harold, his eyebrows narrowed as he recalled his own forlorn tale of misfortune and loss.

“Twas my Da and twin brother they got. Wasn’t fast nor clean either. Two Deadly Adders and a Gronckle...Fucking twats. Hackett, my father, got stuck between the two Adders. Still, remember the scream...his arms went first, then the legs. They trampled him to death. Wasn’t even a face to bury. Just a pulp…” he trailed off. His once clear eyes now shone in the silver moonlight with unshed tears. Shaking his head and letting out a scoff, he continued,

“My brother...Haldor...he got the worst side of it. That damn Gronckle...my brother was working at an anvil and...gods damn that fucking Gronckle...Ate the anvil, thinking it was a rock and spat it at my brother's legs. It fuzed him to the floor while the Adders finished my father. Once they were done...well they decided they were hungry.” he finished. A sigh escaped the larger man as he rolled the axe in his hand by the handle. The wood was blackened and charred yet stood strong even under the weight of the double-bladed tip, however,c both blades were noticeably chipped and worn.   
  
“The molten anvil burnt clean through his bone, separating him, and he started crawling back to the house. He got to the porch before they caught up to him and finished him - as if he were a hobbled deer. Thought it was some carcass, from the state of his body, they threw up until I saw the ring on his hand. Forged a pair of them myself, for us. To remember that we’re more than brothers, twin brothers till the end. I always thought we’d die together, some raid on some stupid shore. We’d fight together, defending each other until we were overrun, dying beside each other.” he raised his right hand, showing the simple silver and iron ring that lay on his index finger. The mismatched metals, while almost similar in shades, stood apart under the attentive yet impartial light of the white moon above them. Harold could almost see his brother and himself in the ring.

“Odd finger to put it on, eh Harold?” Ivar asked quietly, eyeing the rings odd positioning.

“Aye, but me and Haldor...we never liked conventions. Nah, always broke ‘em. Got us a fucking beating from Da sometimes, but it made us who were are.” came the amused reply.

Hiccup was getting restless; _This has gone on for too long_ , he thought as he saw the conversation continue with no end in sight. He felt little remorse for what happened because he knew that dragons didn’t just attack for the sake of attacking anymore. They had to be provoked or threatened by the humans. He was about to attempt running behind their backs, whilst their focus was on the Mead Hall and their conversation but was stopped when he heard a distinct growl. He knew he heard that somewhere before- the signifying alpha, leading characteristic in that snarl. There could only be one type of dragon with that telltale red markings and sailfin protruding from of its head.

 _An Alpha Speed Stinger…_ he thought, almost breaking his cover in the confusion. The red stripped leader snarled again, its tail agitatedly swinging from side to side, poised to strike. Soon, two more Speed Stingers arrived by their Alpha’s side, flanking it and snarling at the two men before them. Whipping around and fumbling with their weapons, the two men faced the three, relatively small, dragons before them. Well, small for dragons. The regular Speed Stingers stood seven feet tall, towering over most men. Two front paws jutted out of their lean and sleek, athletic and aerodynamic bodies. From their paws were a pair of claws, half a foot in length at least protruded menacingly. Their tails, consisting of a third of their length, if not more, stood poised and curved over the top of their bodies. Posed to attack the men in front of them. The Alpha, Lead Stinger stood several feet taller than his follower counterparts, his red sailfin jittered angrily as his red tipped tail swung menacingly over his head. Another snarl ripped from its snout, imitated at a higher pitch by his brethren.

“Harold...what the fuck…” Ivar managed, stepping back from the dragons ahead of him; they were outnumbered and outmatched.

“Ivar...Don’t run. They want that; these sadistic fucks love a chase. Our options are to either fight them, where we become dinner or walk away...slowly and steadily.” he responded, enforcing the latter idea with his hesitant steps backward.

“Don’t break eye contact, Ivar. They’ll see it as a sign of weakness. Lower your weapon slowly and-” he was cut off by another screech that erupted from the Alpha Stinger; its red eyes bore into the blue of Harold, flickering occasionally towards the brown of Ivar, sense and looking for fear, weakness and the flight instinct of most prey. Those who lacked these qualities were usually unsavory; fighting was less fun than chasing. You lack power in a fight, rather lack the ability to flaunt it. And flaunting one’s power is satisfies their ego. Something the Alpha Stinger loved stroked. Unsatisfied with the status of his prey, in regards to their fear, the red striped Stinger pounced forward, eager to instill fear in his would be prey.

Ivar, out of instinct, took a hurried step backward, his eyes flashing with uncertainty. In the eyes of the Alpha, uncertainty leads to only one thing - fear. The dragon’s lips pulled back, horridly akin to a smirk, showcasing its pointed and carnivorous teeth. Hiccup, weighing his options, opted to stay within the shadowy confines of the wall and ever setting moon. Growing ever restless, the auburn-haired man watched in earnest the reaction of the Alpha at the slight showcase of weakness. Edging ever forward, the dragon’s superior demeanor seemed to affect Ivar, coercing him into submission. Soon thereafter, Ivar dropped his weapon and fled. With a short bark, the three Speed Stingers, lead by the Alpha, chased after the heavy-footed man. While they were adept on wet and slippery surfaces, the Speed Stingers weren’t so fleet-footed on solid cobble ground; their chase leads them through twisting whirls and paths. In seconds, they were out of sight.

Hiccup knew this was his chance. He could attack the lone man, unarmed and distracted, finish him and carry on to the hidden entrance on the other side of the Hall. The large man was still frozen, his right shoulder pointed directly at Hiccup. His shoulder pads, to Hiccups dismay, overlayed his neck and the vital jugular he needed to stab to efficiently and silently kill the man. He was running out of time, he had to get to the Hall otherwise they’d die without him even lifting a finger to help them. A growl resonated within his chest, his grip on the dagger tightening, as he took careful and calculated steps forward, edging out of the shadows. Harold, oblivious to the other, now more prominent, danger, simply sighed and slumped his shoulders. His shoulders sagging allowed, for a brief moment of time, the pale and long neck of Harold being exposed

With a sudden yell, Hiccup lashed forwards. Grabbing Harold by the shoulders, he vaulted over him and pinned him to the ground. Harold, being taken by surprise by the lithely built man, had no chance to respond before the knife was pushed into his throat. Gurgling, he stared up at the green eyes of Hiccup in confusion and pain. Then anger. He knew he only had mere moments left in consciousness, in life. Gripping his axe tighter, he flung his arm with as much of his strength he could muster. The axe flew through the air with inhuman speed, the blade glinting in the priceless moonlight, before embedding itself into the arm of his assailant. A short cry erupted from Hiccup as the axe cut through his hardened leather and pierced his skin, tissue, and muscle. He felt the blood steadily flow down his arm and onto the dying man before him. With stoic silence once more, Hiccup withdrew the dagger from the man’s throat and stabbed him continuously into the heart, earning him groans and small cries of pain as the dagger entered and exited. Harold’s grip on the axe wavered as the darkness began to envelop him. HIs thoughts strayed to the dragons that killed his family, then to the men that protected them. Anger surged through him once more as he flung his axe with all the strength he could muster. The axe flew into Hiccup’s left ribs, shattering them, before Harold's arm went limp, the axe falling out of the wound and onto the dead body.

Hiccup, gasping in agony, fell to the side of the man he’d killed mere seconds prior. He felt the stickiness of his blood seeping through his jerkin. Taking in a shuddering breath, he was met with a pain that pierced through his chest as his broken ribs shifted under his expanding lungs. His hands, now covered in the blood of both himself and his victim, pressed down on crimson cobble ground as he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. Shakily, he took tentative steps through the blacken and scorched village as he felt his surroundings slowly becoming blurred and his sense steadily becoming numb. Fortunate for Hiccup, the Speed Stingers that had chased after Ivar had gathered the attention of the rest of the Dragon Hunters.   
Painfully, he slipped by them all and soon found his way the secret hatch behind the Mead Hall, beneath the salted fish barrels. Shoving the now burnt and broken barrels, full of rotting and burnt fish, Hiccup was met with a wooden hatch, cornered with metal edges and three H’s carved, almost illegible, at the bottom. The wooden hatch creaked as it was flung open by the bloodied man before it, the dark abyss that followed it seemingly comforting him. Once he climbed down, he was engulfed with the black that ate the light from the moon above. Unsheathing his blade, he ignited his sword, producing artificial light for him to navigate with. Through multiple turns and twists, Hiccup finally faced the torch lit metal grate, several feet taller than his father, separating him and the underground entrance of the Mead Hall. To his recollection, he had neither designed this nor had any knowledge of its emplacement. Eyeing the thick metal chains doubled with a padlock several inches thick, Hiccup gave the idea of hacking through it up immediately. Blood continued to pool by his feet, his gaze darkening as every second passed, as his wounds continued to worsen.

 _I could scream, then someone would hear me. The question is: Who would hear me? Those with me, my family and village, or…_ his thoughts trailed off as he heard unintelligible voices coupled with banging and shouts. The stubborn metal padlock seemed to be his death. Hiccup, cursing the very creation, needed something to melt the iron that would end up killing him.

_Snotlout would be laughing… well...until he found his Da. Huh funny, he calls me a coward when he hasn’t even killed anyone yet. I can’t even shove that in his face._

His thoughts strayed to his father, the man he looked up to and despised at the same time.

_The one man I tried so hard to please, and when I betrayed him he loved me more than before. Berk is his son, not me. But I can’t argue with that. Being Chief when my father was...well fucking a whore, I couldn’t think of anyone, or anything, other than the village. Is that everyone? Or no one? Huh, Astrid was...shit...Astrid. Couldn’t even say goodbye. Just yelled at her to stay safe._

His knees felt weak, collapsing under him. Pushing himself, he rested his back against the wall. The darkness ate his vision; all he could see was the metal padlock that ended up killing him. With a last ditch effort, he cried out. His voice echoed in the tunnels around him. Knowing that was the only chance he would be saved. Silence slowly enveloped him, his sword steadily getting dimmer as the fuel continued to run out. His mind still wandered about Astrid, even though he could feel the freezing blood that ran by his hands. His breaths became too strenuous to take.

 _Her...I just wanted to tell her…_ he couldn’t keep his frustration at bay, the tears began to fall. He cried silently, but soon he couldn’t take it anymore and cried out once more, his scream now should be audible to those above. He smiled when he heard the shots and bangs from above cease as there was shuffling of feet on the wood.

When he heard the wooden hatch creak open and hurried legs climbing down the ladder, Hiccup couldn’t hold his sobbing at bay, regardless of the pain that stabbed his sides. Sobbing, the darkness ate him up, once and for all.

  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter II

"I don't know, Stoick Wit' Gothi gone...I'm not sure if he can... " came a thick Scottish accent, piercing through the haze that surrounded Hiccups mind. His eyes lay closed as his mind wandered, to the events that were coming back to him. The pain. It felt as if there were boulders lying upon his chest, weighing him down and keeping him from joining Valhalla.

"You...Gobber, how..." a gruff and deep-voiced Viking replied, shaking his head as his best friend who had stood by him for years. Decades.

"Look, Stoick. I don't want him to die either. But I've never taken a wound that bad. It smashed his ribs and the gods know what else its done to his insides."

"Hiccup...oh Hiccup..." his father whispered, a big hand wrapping around his thin and bony one. "Please...just...live?" he pleaded, his voice barely a whisper, weaker than he has ever heard him. Stoicks eyes glazed over the prone and infirm body. Nauseated, Stoick turned away. Compunction eating at his soul, he faced Gobber. The one-armed, one-legged blacksmith could only look at his feet.

"He always looked up to you, Gobber. You...you were his father, more than me. If anything I...I didn't understand him when he was young. I-"

"You blamed him for Val, didn't you?" Gobber asked sharply, though his eyes were still focused on his cuffed boots. The leather was worn, brown yet stained with tinges of red. Said red was a courtesy of the turmeric that was shipped in once a year. Took Gobber years before he could convince Stoick that the abhorrent price was worth the artistic and articulative nature of the colour.

"What I did...Gobber did he...did he come to you abo-"

"He told me you said it to him. In words. Just after the whole incident with that Night Fury." Gobber cut him off, his hands resting uncomfortably on his axe handle, the brown outer layer wore thin and exposing the lightly coloured inner layers.

"I...I was angry. He didn't want to join the dragon training, he didn't want to become a dragon killer. Val, she wanted none of the killings either...I made that stupid jump." he mumbled, unable to take his eyes off Hiccup as he lay in the bed.

His eyes came up to meet Stoick's green, his eyebrows narrowed, sentencing the man. "It wasn't his fault that Val died, Stoick. She shielded him, as parents do."

Marching away from his friend, he turned back, "As parents ought to do." he murmured, before disappearing behind a door.

Stoick recoiled as it shut, the bang shuddering the walls of the room. A sigh shook his body as it left, Stoick's mind left shattered. Surging to his feet, Stoick's eyes wrought over his son's form once more, swallowing thickly as he looked over the ghastly injury in his chest. Breathing deeply, he followed his friend out, and into the open hall. Carefully, he shut the plain wooden door behind him. The frame shook slightly as it locked into place, a loose screw falling to the floor with a clack. Glancing down at it for a fleeting moment, Stoick trudged onwards into the warm expanse that was the Mead Hall.

Surrounded by shorter, smaller yet likeminded Vikings, he grumbled at their situation. Encircled, outnumbered and numerous already dead and missing, Stoick didn't know what to do. His brother was missing, as such leaving Gobber to be his right-hand man. Whilst he was a true friend, and Viking to the heart, Gobber was no fighter. At least not like his brother. His mind wandered for the briefest of moments, recalling times spent with Spitelout. Food, mead, women, battles, blood, and glory of the past forty years.

  
...

He especially recalled a fine lady, many years before meeting Val, who had greeted him on the battlefield. Alfhild was the enemy, a Maurader. She had fiery red hair, like himself, high cheekbones encompassing beautiful cherry lips and striking azure eyes. Her hands had deftly stitched the sword wound that had maimed his forearm, though Stoick could swear to this day that her hands were a lot more adventurous than most; to no objection of his own. The grisly injury was several inches deep, his bone bared to the sunlight and blood flowed down his arm and pooled by his feet. He simply watched her go about her business, murmuring faint instructions to which he hastily obliged. Her piercing eyes, while voraciously watching her work had, on occasion, glanced up at him.

When she finished, she dusted herself off, bloodied hands and all, yet she couldn't contain a gasp when his hand grasped hers. His battle-hardened, callous, wood-working hands easily kept her at bay. His eyes scanned her face, for signs of disgust, revolt or repugnance yet could only find surprise and astonishment. He had, with his gruff, cracked and dry voice murmured his thanks before letting go. She stood there, seconds ticking by, as her eyes stayed watching his. She had shyly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her face flushed, with embarrassment and giddiness as he peered into her eyes. She had scampered off afterwards, leaving him in the mud as she tended to the others.

He had kept her from the prison camp as a reward for tending to the wounded, granting her the freedom to join the Hairy Hooligan Tribe. To join the Berkians. She had smiled at his offer, her teeth flashing in the light, a dimple evident on her right cheek.

Later at night, when they had met once more, he had asked her why she'd helped him. The question hung between them as she searched for her own reasoning.

"I'm a healer, Stoick," she whispered, her eyes glancing down onto her feet as she spoke, as if embarrassed, "I...I..." she stuttered, swallowing thickly before continuing, "Friend or foe, Stock, I'll tend to your wounds because I swore that I would bring no harm. If I took you as my patient, my honour compels me to stay true to my words."

Her eyes came up to meet him, daring the burly man to challenge her. Instead, she was simply gazing into the green eyes of a man that understood. She nervously laughed, goosebumps running along her arms as the cold night sky bit into her. Stoick, eyeing her trembling form, softly steered her shoulders into an embrace, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing her to his chest.

The water in the distance glimmered in the priceless moonlight, shining as small scarlet fish danced near the surface. The hills beyond the river stood tall, colourless ice caps covering their peaks. The rocky steppes hung to Stoicks left, churned up and wrought with bodies. A pale brown flag with a dragon insignia lay standing over the littered corpses. His tribes flag.

He recalled how he took her against the ground that night, passionately and with eagerness as Viking his age should have. He was accepting of his advance as well, responding with matched interest through her sultry glances and touches. It wasn't without his part of courting but both of them knew that their lives could end at any minute. They sought happiness when they could.

She would die the next day in a last-ditch raid from the Marauders. They attacked at the break of dawn while they were sleeping amidst their recent victory, unknown of the fight still residing in their fresh enemies. Torches were in their hands, running down with their weapons gleaming in the bright, ocherous hue of the rising sun, climbing the sky behind their backs.

They burnt the houses they stayed in, killing anyone they could find. Stoick, in the haze of the battle surging around him, could barely rally his men to fight back the invaders. But the death toll was high. Innocents lay dead, with their kin having no respite.  
...

"Stoick!"

He was roughly drawn back to the present, facing expecting faces of those he ruled. He shifted uncomfortably in his clothing as he shifted into his seat, reality landing on his shoulders once more. He gazed across the room, taking in the faces of his subjects, his people. Most of their faces lay in defeat, however, Stoick could see the defiance and strength in few.

"We should surrender! They'll spare the women and children at least!" came a shout, its origin being a short and stocky man, his pale grey eyes narrowing at his chief. The man's beard reached the floor, the tip grazing the wooden floorboards as his chin twitched in anger.

"Nay! We should fight to the death, be it to the last drop of Berkian blood! They'll not spare a hair on our backs! Why should we lay down and die like cattle?" came another voice, that of a women's. In her arms lay a babe, maybe only months old, asleep and oblivious to the outside world. Stoick's gaze softened at its sight.

The walls of the Mead Hall shuddered under another attack, startling those inside. He tightly shut his eyes, cursing himself for putting the clan - his own people - in this position. Growling, he stood himself up, towering over others once more.

He opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by another.

...

Opening his eyes nigh impossible. The throbbing in his head keeping him from making any movements, but he could sense his surroundings without them. He vaguely heard his father rambling before being cut off by another voice, however, he couldn't tell the man until his father had mentioned him by name. He heard a pair of receding footsteps and a door slamming shut, his bed vibrating as a resultant of the force. Soon his father had left him, a massive weight being lifted from the bed and the grey cotton sheet that covered him from the chest below. He heard footsteps retreating

His chest ached as if he took a hammer but the pain peaked under one of his ribs. Breathing was, apparently, quite taxing when one's ribs lay in an estranged order, however, Hiccup managed through his predicament by resting his weight on his other set of ribs. Groaning, Hiccup shifted his feet from under the thick grey wool, the room made even more unbearably scorching by the fire burning not three feet from him. Though the relief for his feet was rather satisfactory at best, his bones seemed to protest from anymore locomotive movement.

Swearing under his breath, Hiccup slowly blinked his eyes open. A boring yet neutral wood ceiling greeted him, its marking and stains bringing to attention that he was, in fact, inside the Mead Hall. A sigh escaped his lips before his ribs were throbbing once more, gaining another string of curses from his mouth.

"Fucking badger faced cunt..."

"You shouldn't swear, you know? Gods don't see such actions from us as...acceptable." Came a female voice from the door, alerting Hiccup to another's presence in the room. Unbeknownst to him, a Viking, of the female variety presumably, had waltzed in. She had to be of the secretive nature, however, due to Hiccups current mental state, anyone could have walked unknown to him in as long as they didn't bang the door. Smiling to himself, he played along,

"Then his whole, uh, fucking village is well...hmm, fucked?" he humorously hummed,  
"At least if they hoped to gain entrance to the human equivalent of a divine watering hole, that is." he continued, a smile gracing his bloodied and cracked lips.

"By that fact, this whole village is sacrilegious, Hiccup." giggled the woman. Even in the shadows, Hiccup could make out golden hair that gleamed in the reflected light, which bounced around most of the room.

"Perhaps...or maybe the Gods are as...what do those Christians call it? Sinful? Hmph, they don't know how to li-" he was cut off with a coughing fit, painfully racking his broken ribs.   
Gasping, he fell back. He could hear her footsteps closing in and a gentle hand coming to grasp his, and her fingers slowly caressing to top of his hand. Her face came to light, highlighting her sky blue eyes, the slight run of freckles sitting slightly north of her cheekbones, the sharp angular jaw. His eyes trailed over her concerned face, her eyes asking him millions of questions.

"I'm...I'm glad you're ok, Astrid....I...I don't know what I would've done if..." he trailed off, averting his gaze from her and taking deep breaths to calm his heart.

"Hey, look at me, Hiccup."   
He brought his green eyes to meet her, defeat and guilt weighing down his shoulders.  
"I'm glad your...with us. When you came in...I...I couldn't..." she swallowed thickly, her eyes gleaming in the orange bask that came from the fireplace. Unsteadily, Hiccups good hand came up. His fingers found their way to her cheek, cupping her face.

"It's ok...I'm with you now. I'll be more care-"

"How can you say that Hiccup?" she interrupted, her eyes blazing in the firelight. "How can you promise me something that..." she clenched his hand as she shut her eyes in frustration and pain. The seconds ticked by as Hiccup bided his time, their hands still wrapped together in an embrace, as the firelight danced its way through the nooks and crannies of the room. His other hand, resting on her cheek, began to trace her freckles on her face.

"I...I can't, Astrid. Occupational hazard, remember?" he humoured, grinning cheekily despite the rather glum and melancholy situation that enveloped them. Her blue eyes softened; his use of comedy a front for distant feelings inside of him.

"Talk to me, Hiccup...Somethings...some-"

"Uncle's dead, Astrid." he averted his eyes, starting abysmally at the tiny orange inferno warming the room, the glow lighting his face and reflecting off his viridescent irises. His grip suddenly tightened, causing Astrid's fingers to squirm. Muttering apologies, Hiccup loosened his grip before letting go altogether.

Scowling, Astrid lighting gripped his shoulder, trying to incite a response but was repelled by a rough roll of his shoulders. His eyes never left the life-giving fire, but that slight show of aggression drained him, his shoulders slumping and a sigh escaping his lips.

"Dead. I found him...lying in a pool of his blood and...and innards. Begged me to tell Snotlout that he loved him." his voiced cracked at the mention of his uncle's last wish, his head shaking as tears filled his eyes. He never was truly close to Spitelout but family is family. Blood runs deep, no matter how cold.

"If maybe I was quicker or..." he trailed off, concealing his face with his hands, sobs quietly racking his body. Quite immediately, Astrid found herself lightly embracing him, mindful of his injuries.

"It wasn't your fault, Hiccup." she cooed, running her hand through his brown hair, rife with shit, mud, and blood. She saw him slowly crunch up, bringing his legs painfully to his chest, hugging them.

"That wasn't all...I...I had to kill someone. The same guy that did this to me and...and I stabbed him to death, Astrid. His blood...it was all over my hands and...Gods, I don't know how..." he scoffed, tears still blurring his vision of the fiery hearth.

"Hiccup, you had to. They attacked us, they gave you no choice. It was them, not you."

"If only it was so simple!" he exclaimed, throwing his head back into the pillow. "It's not that easy, Astrid. The guilt of taking another man's life...it's not because I killed him...no, its because it was so easy to do so. That it came so...naturally." he shrugged, wiping his face with the sleeve of his hand as his other meddled with his prosthetic. He sighed when he felt her hug him tighter, her face buried in his back. The minutes passed, still in their embrace, and he began to regain his composure. They stayed in their embrace, with one another.

Hiccup's mind wandered, through the events that had come. The pain, while there, was barely being registered by his mind.

"Never again, Hiccup," she whispered, tightening her arms even further. Confused, he hand came up to grab her, his eyes still puffy from crying earlier.

"What Astrid?" he asked carefully, noticing her sudden change in demeanour.

"You don't get to leave me like that. You don't get to leave without at least saying 'goodbye'. You got that?" her voice broke at the end, pressing her face deeper into his back.

"I got that, Astrid. Don't worry. I promise." he whispered, holding her hand tightly.

"You can't promise me that, Hiccup. You can only..." she shook her head, unable to bring herself to say the words.

"I can only love you, Astrid."

...

Limping, the two of them slowly made their way to the door. It took Astrid a fair bit of convincing but, aside from Hiccup wanting to eat, they had to report Spitelout's death. The bones, while set, still sent pain racing through his body every time he took a step or a breath. The wound itself was continuously bleeding, though lightly. The booming voices echoed down the hall and to the couple that was walking through the vast building.

The hall opened to a massive hall wherein Hiccup's father stood at the top, adhering to his subjects: The clan. His father was about to open his mouth, his eyes narrowed at the figures in front of him. But Hiccup beat him to it.

"Uncle's dead, father."

 


End file.
